"They'll be first-rate at fortification," I agreed.

Most monastic communities believe that contemplative labor is an important part of worship. Some monks make excellent wine to pay the expenses of their abbey. Some make cheese or chocolates, or crumpets and scones. Some breed and sell beautiful dogs.

The brothers of St. Bart's produce fine handcrafted furniture. Because a fraction of the interest from the Heineman endowment will always pay their operating expenses, they do not sell their chairs and tables and sideboards. They give everything to an organization that furnishes homes for the poor.

With their power tools, supplies of lumber, and skills, they would be able to further secure doors and windows.

Tapping her pen against the list of names on the tablet, Sister Angela reminded me: "Five."

"Ma'am, maybe what we should do is-you call the abbot, talk to him about this, then talk to Brother Knuckles."

"Brother Salvatore."

"Yes, ma'am. Tell Brother Knuckles what we need here, defense and fortification, and let him consult with the other four we've picked. They'll know their brothers better than we do. They'll know the best candidates."

"Yes, that's good. I wish I could tell them who they'll be defending against."

"I wish I could, too, Sister."

All the vehicles that served the brothers and sisters were garaged in the basement of the school.

I said, "Tell Knuckles-"

"Salvatore."

"-that I'll drive one of the school's monster SUVs up there to bring them here, and tell him-"

"You said hostile people are out there somewhere."

I had not said people. I had said them and they.

"Hostile. Yes, ma'am."

"Won't it be dangerous, to and from the abbey?"

"More dangerous for the kids if we don't get some muscle here for whatever's coming."

"I understand. My point is you'd have to make two trips to bring so many brothers, their baseball bats, and their tools. I'll drive an SUV, you drive the other, and we'll get it all done at one time."

"Ma'am, there's nothing I'd like better than having a snowplow race with you-tires chocked, engines revved, starter pistol-but I want Rodion Romanovich to drive the second SUV."

"He's here?"

"He's in the kitchen, up to his elbows in icing."

"I thought you were suspicious of him."

"If he's a Hoosier, I'm a radical dulcimer enthusiast. When we're defending the school, if it comes to that, I don't think it's a good idea for Mr. Romanovich to be inside the defenses. I'll ask him to drive one of the SUVs to the new abbey. When you talk to Brother Knuck… alvatore-"

"Knuckalvatore? I'm not familiar with Brother Knuckalvatore."

Until meeting Sister Angela, I wouldn't have thought that nuns and sarcasm could be such an effervescent mix.

"When you talk to Brother Salvatore, ma'am, tell him that Mr. Romanovich will be staying at the new abbey, and Salvatore will be driving that SUV back here."

"I assume Mr. Romanovich will not know that he's taking a one-way trip."

"No, ma'am. I will lie to him. You leave that to me. Regardless of what you think, I am a masterful and prodigious liar."

"If you played a saxophone, you'd be a double threat."

CHAPTER 28

AS LUNCHTIME APPROACHED, THE KITCHEN staffers were not only busier than they had been previously but also more exuberant. Now four of the nuns were singing as they worked, not just two, and in English instead of Spanish.

All ten cakes had been frosted with chocolate icing. They looked treacherously delicious.

Having recently finished mixing a large bowl of bright orange buttercream, Rodion Romanovich was using a funnel sack to squeeze an elaborate decorative filigree on top of the first of his orange-almond cakes.

When I appeared at his side, he didn't look up, but said, "There you are, Mr. Thomas. You have put on your ski boots."

"I was so quiet in stocking feet, I was scaring the sisters."

"Have you been off practicing your dulcimer?"

"That was just a phase. These days I'm more interested in the saxophone. Sir, have you ever visited the grave of John Dillinger?"

"As you evidently know, he is buried in Crown Hill Cemetery, in my beloved Indianapolis. I have seen the outlaw's grave, but my primary reason for visiting the cemetery was to pay my respects at the final resting place of the novelist Booth Tarkington."

"Booth Tarkington won the Nobel Prize," I said.

"No, Mr. Thomas. Booth Tarkington won the Pulitzer Prize."

"I guess you would know, being a librarian at the Indiana State Library at one-forty North Senate Avenue, with thirty-four thousand volumes about Indiana or by Indiana writers."

"Over thirty-four thousand volumes," Romanovich corrected. "We are very proud of the number and do not like to hear it minimized. We may by this time next year have thirty-five thousand volumes about Indiana or by Indiana writers."

"Wow. That'll be a reason for a big celebration."

"I will most likely bake many cakes for the event."

The steadiness of his decorative-icing application and the consistency of details in his filigree design were impressive.

If he'd not had about him an air of deceit equal to that of a chameleon sitting on a tree branch, disguised as bark, waiting for innocent butterflies to approach, I might have begun to doubt his potential for villainy.

"Being a Hoosier, sir, you must have a lot of experience driving in snow."

"Yes. I have had considerable experience of snow both in my adopted Indiana and in my native Russia."

"We have two SUVs, fitted with plows, in the garage. We've got to drive up to the abbey and bring back some of the brothers."

"Are you asking me to drive one of these vehicles, Mr. Thomas?"

"Yes, sir. If you would, I'd be most grateful. It'll save me making two trips."

"For what purpose are the brothers coming to the school?"

"For the purpose," I said, "of assisting the sisters with the children if there should be a power failure related to the blizzard."

He drew a perfect miniature rose to finish off one corner of the cake. "Does not the school have an emergency backup generator?"

"Yes, sir, you bet it does. But it doesn't crank out the same level of power. Lighting will have to be reduced. They'll have to turn heating off in some areas, use the fireplaces. And Sister Angela wants to be prepared in case the generator falters, too."

"Have the main power and the backup generator ever both failed on the same occasion?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't think so. But in my experience, nuns are obsessed with detailed planning."

"Oh, I have no doubt, Mr. Thomas, that if nuns had designed and operated the nuclear plant at Chernobyl, we would not have suffered a radiation disaster."

This was an interesting turn. "Are you from Chernobyl, sir?"

"Do I have a third eye and a second nose?"

"Not that I can see, sir, but then you're largely clothed."

"If we should ever find ourselves sunning on the same beach, you are free to investigate further, Mr. Thomas. May I finish decorating these cakes, or must we rush pell-mell to the abbey?"

Knuckles and the others would need at least forty-five minutes to gather the items they'd be bringing and to assemble for pickup.

I said, "Finish the cakes, sir. They look terrific. How about if you meet me down in the garage at twelve forty-five?"

"You can depend on my assistance. I will have finished the cakes by then."

"Thank you, sir." I started to leave, then turned to him again. "Did you know Cole Porter was a Hoosier?"

"Yes. And so are James Dean, David Letterman, Kurt Vonnegut, and Wendell Willkie."

"Cole Porter, he was perhaps the greatest American songwriter of the century, sir."